131 Days [Book 4]_About the Blood

by Keith C. Blackmore

  “I know. And thank you. For allowing me––us––to live upon your land.”

  Clavellus tsked. “This isn’t the Nordish front, and he’s yours. Being married myself, I can’t imagine walking about without knowing what was happening with my life’s chosen one. Gather yourselves into one of those wagons now. Machlann! See to it the lady has room and that Clades sits beside her. Pratos should be along shortly with that extra wagon.”

  No sooner did he mention that than the people crowding the streets parted before an arriving wagon. Pratos sat in the perch, next to the driver.

  “Good timing,” Muluk muttered, a hand straying to his stomach.

  “My heartfelt thanks again, Master Clavellus,” Clades said. “And Masters Muluk and Goll. This means everything to us.”

  A stoic Goll acknowledged the guard’s gratitude with a nod. If he were married, he supposed he would want his wife nearby as well.

  “So many thank-yous,” someone with a familiar voice said, turning their heads. “Almost wish I was leaving the city.”

  There, standing in the narrow gap between two merchant stalls, was Borchus, dressed in a loose green shirt and leggings. The short agent beckoned the masters into the narrow alley. Excusing himself, Clavellus went to the man while Muluk followed. Goll wasn’t as quick to follow, but he eventually joined the group. Crammed between rough slabs of wood, the city smells seemed even stronger.

  Muluk frowned and checked his sandals. “Think I walked through a piss puddle.”

  That got the rest of them checking their feet.

  “Staying hidden, I see,” Clavellus said, crowding in close to the agent.

  The man, with his long sideburns and short-cropped graying hair, flashed tired green eyes. “Staying hidden and alive,” he said and nodded toward their transportation. “Taking in some new people, Master Clavellus?”

  “A few.”

  “Seddon smiles brightly on the kindly.”

  No one said anything then, but heat emanated from Goll. “You didn’t let Shan look at that wound.”

  “It’s much better,” Borchus said wearily. “Truly.”

  “Don’t joke with me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “At least he’s not mucking about like he’s been stabbed,” Muluk pointed out. “I mean, you wouldn’t know unless… you knew.”

  See? Borchus said with a look.

  “What news do you have?” Goll asked, getting to the meat of things. “And who’s he?” He stuck out his chin, aiming at the one-legged figure lurking just behind the agent.

  The stranger was holding himself up with a pair of crutches and appeared nervous enough for five men.

  “This,” Borchus said, “is my man Garl. Garl’s been very good to me over the years. He’s also been very good to us over the last few days, learning things no one else might’ve learned. All for the House of Ten. But due to circumstances beyond our control, we’ve decided it best that Garl no longer be in the city. He’s a little too obvious, you might say.”

  “What happened to you?” Muluk asked the one-legged man.

  “I was a pit fighter,” Garl answered. “Once. Until the Pit took my leg.”

  “Master Goll,” Borchus said, “Garl needs to leave the city. Preferably on your wagon and under your protection. He won’t be a bother. He does, however, need a place to live. I was wondering if perhaps you might have some use for him at your villa, Master Clavellus?”

  Clavellus straightened and looked down his nose at the one-legged spy.

  “This have anything to do with you keeping to the shadows?” Goll asked Borchus.

  “Of course not,” he answered. “My desire to stay out of sight is… because of another matter entirely. However, there are those who might recognize Garl if they see him. If they do, they might force him to reveal where I am. And then kill him. Possibly me. We both prefer he stay alive, which is why I thought of you.”

  The agent studied the taskmaster.

  “Why not?” Clavellus said. “I’m in a generous mood. Best take advantage of it while it lasts. Any comments, Master Goll?”

  He had none.

  “You say he’s done a great deal on our behalf?” Clavellus asked Borchus.

  “He has.”

  “That’s enough for me. Hop along that wagon drawing close, good Garl, and the lads will hoist you aboard.”

  “That wagon’s getting heavy,” Muluk noted.

  “My concern is turning that beast around and leaving the city,” Clavellus stated.

  Behind them all, Garl’s face dropped with disbelief, for he’d clearly expected to be turned away by the taskmaster. A heartbeat later, he got moving. He stopped beside Borchus and gave the agent a solemn look. Borchus gripped the man’s shoulder and gestured for him to go. Without a word, Garl swung himself past the collection of men.

  “Any news since yesterday?” Goll asked his agent.

  “None.”

  Goll was about to say more, but Muluk studied him with a pleasant expression.

  “What?” Goll asked, not appreciating the look.

  “You didn’t say a word when Borchus asked about Garl. I’m proud of you.”

  Goll rolled his eyes. “Seddon above. Clavellus, are you finished with the marketplace?”

  “Almost.”

  “Then please hurry. If we linger much longer, we’ll no doubt take half the city back with us.” He then looked at Borchus. “Stay well, then. Do what you do.”

  Borchus nodded that he would.

  Goll walked away without another word. Muluk waited a beat before holding out a fist.

  Borchus smiled faintly and pressed his own into it.

  Satisfied, the Kree left for the wagon.

  Clavellus remained, eyeing the shorter man. “All is well?”

  “As well as can be expected. Clavellus… Thank you for taking that one.”

  The taskmaster smiled gently. “Watch yourself, Borchus.”

  “I will.”

  A ray of sunshine caught the older man’s woolly profile then, and his bald head glistened. Clavellus squinted at the sky before returning to the street.

  Keeping to the narrow alley, Borchus raised a hand in farewell to the House of Ten. The men secured themselves and their goods onto three wagons. They tucked Garl within the second one, well out of sight. Borchus wondered if that was Garl’s idea and decided it probably was.

  The drivers got the horses moving. The crowds parted, and the wagons rolled by.

  Once they’d gone, the agent sighed in relief. He watched the crowds moving past the little alley and, keeping his eyes on them, retreated into shadows.

  Garl was away.

  Time to focus upon his other concerns.

  The night before, Garl had provided him with the names of two men Borchus might potentially recruit for his fledgling network of spies. Garl had even agreed to introduce them since Strach had been removed. Deep into the night, however, they still weren’t able to find the pair. The spy did meet a beggar sitting against an inn’s foundation. Borchus remembered how the wretched man’s clothes had smelled of urine and stale beer. As bad luck would have it, the beggar reported that both the lads they sought had been killed by Strach days before.

  They left the beggar alone, giving him a coin for his trouble.

  Once away, Borchus and Garl got talking. They figured the killings had happened not a day or two before Borchus himself murdered the street snake called Strach.

  That still left the agent without spies, but he had one distinct possibility left.

  Naulis.

  And… Sindra.

  His heart sank at that prospect.

  She would require a little more work to convince.

  15

  Pig Knot woke in the early afternoon. He was lying on his back in a comfortable bed and studied the bare timbers crossing the ceiling. He stayed that way, feeling the soft blanket underneath him and the straw mattress under that. Beside him rested a comely honeypot by the name of Jana, sn
uggled into his side like a large leech that had drunk its fill. Pig Knot unclenched his jaw and stuck his tongue between his teeth, feeling an ache about his healing chin. The drawer of the bedside table got his attention. He reached over, pulled it out, and felt around inside.

  His fingers touched his leather purse.

  Still there. Excellent.

  Jana hadn’t stolen anything, after all.

  He had to admit he hadn’t been sure if purchasing Jana’s generous curves for the night was a wise idea or not. He wasn’t even sure he should have slept in the tavern’s room overhead, and he certainly didn’t think he should’ve shuffled his way across floor and steps in front of everyone watching, some even gawking. In the aftermath of the night, however, and seeing the majority of his coin was still his, he relaxed and remembered. The night’s activities had been a chore but also a delight… and he still remembered most of it.

  The stairs. That soured his mood. The stairs had been the worst.

  He lifted one half leg and pulled the blanket free. The bandages remained clean. That was good.

  Though Pig Knot had been initially thrilled about once again living off Sunja’s streets, his mind quickly changed when the smell of cooking food wafted his way. Of course, that led to a tavern, which meant drinking, which attracted female attention. Pig Knot couldn’t resist one or the other, and he had to admit that the sympathy he’d received from Jana resulted in some of the most energetic episodes he’d ever experienced in bed.

  She stirred. “Mmmmh?”

  Pig Knot drew his hand back and stroked her bare shoulder. She’d trapped his other arm beneath her, but he didn’t mind. Lords above, she was as soft as she was pretty. And smell––she was as sweet as fresh flowers.

  “Is it morning?” she murmured, her lips squashed by his chest.

  “No.”

  She cracked open an eye drizzled with brown hair and smiled. “Then why can I see you?”

  “It’s afternoon, I think.”

  “Afternoon?” Her head rose, and her eyes widened. “Oh no.”

  She sat up with a jolt, blanket falling from her breasts, and bounced off the bed.

  “In a hurry?” Pig Knot asked nonchalantly, folding one muscular arm behind his head.

  “I have to go.”

  “I see.”

  “I have to go now.”

  “Returning husband, is it?”

  “Aye that.”

  Tavern wenches. Pig Knot sighed. As bad as men when it came to lies and truth.

  Jana dressed quickly, making him ache all over once again. He reached into the drawer and pulled forth his purse, still filled with coin.

  “Here,” he said, catching her attention while she pulled on a loose-fitting shirt.

  She turned around, white fabric dropping over her privates, and saw Pig Knot holding out a hand filled with gold coins.

  “For me?” she asked, eyes nearly popping out of her head.

  “If you want them.”

  She took them and spread them over a palm before depositing them into a pocket. “You’re wonderful.”

  “Well, I was hoping you’d undress and then get dressed again.”

  That summoned a giggle, and she shook her head. “I have to go. My husband will be wondering where I am.”

  “What is it he does?” he asked through his bandaged chin.

  “He’s with the Street Watch. He’s usually gone all night. If I’m caught away, I tell him I worked until dawn and slept upon a table below. It’s not entirely untrue. It’s better than walking home alone in the deep of night.”

  Pig Knot thought that made sense.

  “Well.” Jana straightened as she completed pulling on pants. She swept back her hair and pinched her shirt away from her chest. “Thank you. I had a wonderful time.”

  “As did I.”

  “You really surprised me for a cripple.”

  That stung, but Pig Knot pursed his lips and didn’t let the hurt show. She walked over and kissed him on the head and cheek and gave his flat belly a quick rub, all the way down to his manhood.

  “I hope we meet again,” she said, breathing foulness into his face.

  Pig Knot didn’t flinch, but when she turned away, his eyes widened as if he were kicked in the nose.

  Jana let herself out of the rented room, wiggling fingers at him as she closed the door. He watched her go with weary wonder, forgetting about the cripple jab. She probably didn’t even realize she’d said it. Pig Knot lay there, listening to a chair or bench being dragged across the floor somewhere below. The thought of rising came to him, and he crunched his stomach. He couldn’t quite pull himself up, so he pushed himself into a sitting position.

  He inspected the room again.

  It had been nicer at night. When he was drunk.

  And fumbling with Jana’s clothes.

  Pig Knot found his shirt and pulled it over his head. He then located his loincloth and draped it over his kog and bells. He sniffed at his shirt and decided it could be washed or outright replaced, but he wasn’t keen on doing anything right then. Hunger pawed at his stomach, but his head informed him it had escaped the night’s drinking unscathed. That was all Pig Knot needed.

  And another night like the last.

  One more, so he could go to his grave somewhat content.

  He lowered himself to the floor, grimacing when his rump thudded against the boards. The pisspot waited, and he pulled it close, angled himself the best way possible, and filled that clay basin. Having done that, he scuffed along the floor to the door, skin rubbing against the planks, thrusting his hips in such a way to lift his bits off the wood. Seddon help him if he got a splinter. Seddon help him if a splinter took him in his topper.

  The hallway air was a comforting mixture of beer, mead, firewater, and even that sweet, awful tang of drying piss and stomach juice. More memories flooded Pig Knot. He wished the lads were about. Both Muluk and Halm could down entire pitchers without pause, and while Goll didn’t, he still managed to pack away a respectable share.

  The lads weren’t around, though. Pig Knot didn’t expect to see any of them ever again, and the moment’s pang of sadness was quickly swept away by the memory of Jana. His first night back in Sunja, fortune had smiled on him. He needed it. Lords above, did he ever.

  The stairs greeted him with all the candor of a cliff drop. Pig Knot remembered the climb to the top and knew he wouldn’t soon forget the equally challenging climb to the bottom.

  He positioned himself at the edge and sized up the drop. He could perhaps roll onto his stomach and lower himself that way, but he thought he could manage rump first. Gripping the edge of that first step, he pushed himself over, buttocks and back muscles grazing wood, and lowered himself until his arms came close to failing––whereupon he dropped perhaps the last three fingers. He landed partially on one miscued man bulb, which practically squirted out from beneath his thigh.

  The resulting pain was brilliant. Nauseating. Enough to topple him. He half tumbled, half slid the rest of the way, the steps slapping the back of his head, right to the bottom. Pig Knot rattled to a halt at the base of the stairs.

  A large man with tied-back hair and a straight strip of a beard that reached his waist appeared. “You slip, cripple?” he asked.

  “Muh.”

  That drew a look of confusion. “What’s that?”

  “Hnnnnnuh.” Pig Knot really didn’t want to talk.

  “You don’t want to talk?”

  Smart lad. Pig Knot squeaked what he hoped was an affirmative-sounding note. It worked. The bearded man nodded and left him alone.

  “He can’t stay there like that,” a decidedly annoyed woman said.

  “I remember him from last night,” said the bearded man. “Went off with Jana. Leave him be.”

  “Someone might come down and trip over his legless carcass.”

  “There’s no one else up there. The rooms are empty.”

  “Then I might trip over him while going upstairs.
”

  “You won’t trip over him.” The bearded man sounded tired. “Just let him be.”

  “Leaving cripples all over your floor. It don’t look right. Looks bad.”

  “He wasn’t drinking.”

  “There’s a difference between a drunk cripple and one who’s not?”

  The bearded man sighed. “Just clean those mugs and scrub down the counters. Then go on up and empty the bedpans.”

  Pig Knot struggled to pull himself up, and when he did, he adjusted the loincloth that had failed to do its job. Once all was secured for the better, he labored to a nearby bench and table. The alehouse doors remained closed but would no doubt be opened shortly. He turned around, dug his hand heels into the edge of the bench, paused to ensure everything was tucked away, and hoisted himself onto the seat. The effort summoned sweat, and his nearly crushed pearl still ached. Pig Knot realized then the alehouse was warm, humid.

  “Barkeep?” he croaked

  The bearded man came over while another woman went into the kitchen. The heavily whiskered barkeep looked helpful.

  “Anything inside there to eat?” Pig Knot asked.

  “If you have the coin, there’s food.”

  “I have the coin.”

  “Then I think there are a few slabs of cold beef to be had. Or ham. Some cold vegetables—cooked from last night, mind you. And perhaps this or that which I can’t rightly remember now.”

  “How much?”

  “A gold piece for a plate.”

  “Any soup instead?”

  “You want soup?”

  “It’s best for this.” Pig Knot pointed at his healing jaw and chin.

  “I’ll ask my missus to warm up a broth. Same price.”

  “High, isn’t it? For a bit of soup?”

  “It’s good soup.”

  “All right.” Pig Knot nodded thanks. Food would set him right… and perhaps inflate his half-squished plum. He waited, elbows on the table, looking this way and that, lost in a post-morning aftermath of drinking. No hammer rang the insides of his head, and for that he was thankful.

  The barkeep returned with a pitcher of water, and Pig Knot gratefully took it. The water hit the back of his throat and kept right on going. When he lowered the pitcher, only a third remained.